


homecoming

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, POV Phil Coulson, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 18:04:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9453464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: Daisy doesn't show up for their dinner date.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shortitude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortitude/gifts).



He knows that her being late to dinner only means there’s been some kind of trouble.

Coulson is still recovering from the latest mission - an ugly cut on the right arm that has left him out of comission for almost a week. He decided to make use of his down time and cook a nice dinner for him and Daisy tonight, staying in one of their safehouses off base, the one they normally use, the one that has their things in, the one that allows them to feel a little less like SHIELD agents and a little more like Daisy and Phil. It’s not that they want a normal life itself - but a nice dinner with wine and candles and good homemade food from time to time is essential, Coulson believes.

He’s even made dessert - a nice lemon mousse with ice cream (he had to buy the ice cream).

The thing is he enjoys cooking for Daisy, but he only ever does it rarely.

After years living on her own and out of a van Daisy has a fondness for traditional - Coulson would almost say conservative, the only part of Daisy you could even whisper that word about - dishes, simple, rich stuff, homely stuff. She likes when there’s a lot of food, mainly. He’s heard stories about the nuns’ horrible cooking and the bland cafeteria food at school, and there aren’t many stories about foster parents cooking for her. Daisy associates food with something nurturing, with love, with something she never had.

As for Coulson, he enjoys doing things for Daisy. Literal, tangible things, the kind of things she values. Like feeding her. Taking care of her, not because she needs it, but specially _because she doesn’t need it_ , simply because he thinks she deserves it. Phil Coulson always wanted to pamper someone. He tried a version (the fancy dinners and expensive gifts version) once upon a time. This was simpler. A good meal. Running the bath for her. Making sure she stayed in bed when sick. Being there, behind her, but with her, on the field, letting her talk her decision through in his presence, support her, believe in her. Okay, those last few things weren’t tangible, but he also enjoyed them.

For all that he loves the job and wants to die on the job and on the field rather than anywhere else, he has missed this. He has missed spending hours in the kitchen thinking about Daisy, tinkering with the recipe to adjust it to Daisy’s favorite flavors, with the record player on, fantasizing about their night together, away from the narrow bunks and not-really-private rooms.

But Daisy doesn’t show up after work, when she was supposed to.

Which means something came up, and last minute, or she would have contacted him, warning him she was out on the field. 

He curses himself for his stupid sentimental plan of a nice dinner. If he were in the base he would be in the loop, maybe he could even be helping. Even injured, he could be helping. Helping her.

He is not one to worry like this - at the beginning he wondered if that meant there was something wrong with him, with the relationship. He had watched others in SHIELD try to carry out romances and this was always a touchy issue. He had watched Lance Hunter try to keep Bobbi out of the field for fear of losing her. It was one of the reasons he had been so reluctant to ever start a relationship of such nature with a fellow SHIELD agent. He never wanted to be that kind of man, that kind of lover.

But he isn’t like that with Daisy. He _likes_ that she is on the field. He doesn’t enjoy the idea of her in danger but he admires her as an agent, as a warrior (the word felt silly at first and Daisy mocked him but in his mind it’s become a term of endearment for his Inhuman, all-too-human, all-powerful, partner). Like he himself wouldn’t want to be out of the field for too long, despite the danger, he understands that Daisy is like that too. He also knows how important it is that Daisy is out there, protecting people and that the world _knows_ that she is out there. And Coulson is proud of her, he as has always been - the difference being that where before he was a bit proud of himself too, for seeing Daisy’s value where others might have missed it, now he is a bit proud of himself because Daisy sees something in him too, enough to love him, anyway. He likes watching her out there, in the field, strong and fearless and kind, and think about her coming home to him at the end of it all.

It makes their quiet moments together - like a nice romantic dinner he’s prepared, something that humble - count more.

Coulson used to think it was an either-or situation. A life protecting the world, or an ordinary life. It turns out you can slip pieces of one into the other. You can have daring life-or-death rescues and you can have lazy Sunday mornings in bed (not _too lazy_ , Daisy doesn’t really do lazy). Even talks of having a family of their own, lately (Daisy would choose to adopt, and that makes sense to him). It scares him, in a good and new way. He is not like Daisy, who fears having things for fear of losing them, who is reluctant to hope for them. Still, it’s all daunting. Another unexpected thing meeting Daisy Johnson has brought him.

But he’s not used to worrying like this; in the distance, without really knowing. The usual worry is different, a kind of low frequency noise inside his chest, that usually gets drown out by being in danger himself, being of the field, by the necessity of being helpful, his admiration for Daisy when she fights, his _awe_ , all those things. But here the kitchen is in complete silence, only DC’s crappy traffic disturbing Coulson’s thoughts. He frowns. He _hates it_. 

When she’s over an hour late Coulson blows out the candles and the returns the plates to the cupboard. He stops the music.

He sighs. He knows there’s no use contacting the base; if she could make contact she would have already. If the team needed him, or if the worst had already happened, they would have called him already. 

He can only wait.

 

+

 

When Daisy arrives, very shorty after, she stands in the middle of the kitchen, her eyes focused on the table like she’s trying to solve a puzzle.

“You’re shaking,” Coulson tells her.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

She is changed into regular clothes, which means she’s been shaking all the way.

Coulson tries to take her hands in his, like he usually does, but she half-turns, out of reach (there will always be something out of reach about Daisy). Something is wrong.

“Are you hurt?”

“Not me,” she answers. She notices his face for the first time. “The team is fine,” she adds quickly.

Her face. It’s not a someone-got-hurt face. It’s a I-had-to-hurt-someone face.

“Let me take off your jacket,” he tries next.

She holds onto it quickly, hugging herself for the briefest moment.

“No, it’s fine,” she says. “Maybe I should - maybe I should go.”

“Wait, you don’t have to.”

When she’s going through something painful Daisy would rather do it on her own; Coulson knows this. It has changed a bit (she lets him in, usually, they are partners, after all), but not entirely. _Come on, Daisy_ , he thinks. He’s no good with watching him suffer on her own. He’s no good with watching her suffer at all.

She makes the motion to move away but then she stops, like she really wants to stay.

“What’s that smell?” she asks, all of the sudden.

“What smell?”

He notices what she’s noticing. The smell of the recently cooked food is in the air, but he somehow knows that’s not what Daisy is talking about. The faint acrid scent of wax. The candles.

Daisy realizes what it means, her face twisting into a grimace.

“I’m sorry, we were supposed to have dinner…” she says. “I’m so sorry.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

Her gaze searches the room, noticing, too, the vase with flowers put away in the sink.

“Look at the candles, the flowers, all the trouble you went through for me.”

“Daisy. That doesn’t matter.”

She gives him a sad, funny look, like she might even cry.

“Did you make me… casserole?”

Coulson nods.

“I’m so sorry, Phil.”

He’s about to say that it doesn’t matter for the third time, but he realizes how inadequate he is. 

He curses his injury. He curses that he didn’t risk it and went on the field with her anyway.

“I should have been there…today… I should have been with you...” he says, weakly.

“No,” Daisy says, firm. “I’m glad you weren’t.”

She says it very solemnly, staring at him, and with that look he sometimes gives other people - but Coulson more than anyone, he guesses - like they are small children in her care she has to protect.

She throws another sad and guilty glance at the table, at the unrealized dinner date, and Coulson grabs her shoulder to distract her.

“What do you need?”

“I’m fine. This is on me, I can-”

He cuts her off with a kiss. Rough. Deep. Grabs her shoulder with his good, stronger hand. It’s brief, but enough to leave her panting.

Daisy nods. Like that, she seems to be saying. She touches his face and then returns the kiss, needy and searing. Coulson doesn’t mind - of course he doesn’t mind - but he is still worried. She holds on, pulls him deeper, against the table, scrapping his neck with her nails as she goes.

He kisses and he kisses and kisses and he moves Daisy across the room, their bodies already familiar with the layout, and to the bedroom.

“Clothes,” she mutters, and Coulson sits her on the edge of the bed and takes off her jeans and underwear, dropping to his knees.

Focusing on Daisy, on her pleasure, comes easy and natural, to him.

He thinks about how sometimes they both need to get away from their bodies - and they do it together. They both know what it’s like to have their bodies betray them, to distrust them. Coulson finds purpose in Daisy’s pleasure, his body, though he often feels it broken and incomplete and _not his_ , finds its place in the world. It’s here, kneeling between Daisy’s naked legs. Meanwhile she takes off her jacket and t-shirt, her bra, jerky angry movements, taking it out on her clothes. She touches her breasts, focusing on her own arousal as well, and Coulson watches her as he bites the top of her thigh.

He makes her come once, but still it’s not enough. He can feel something tense and afraid inside her. Coulson grabs her hips and hoists her up, then turning her until she is on her knees, facing away from him. He can feel a shiver of arousal running through her as he draws his hand over her back, silently asking her to bend.

He takes off his clothes in a moment, trying to keep his fingers touching her skin at all times, as if otherwise he’d be leaving her alone.

“Phil,” Daisy says his name sharply, with need, as she presses her body against him. She wants him, and she wants something rough, quick and familiar.

He keeps smoothing her back with his hand as he rubs the tip of his cock against her, slowly, until he hears a _please_ and buries himself into her. Daisy gasps, a tiny sound of surprise and then _fullness_. Coulson moves carefully, then not.

He covers her body with his, touching their cheeks together, unable to not look at her face while he fucks her, even if she can’t meet his eyes.

“It’s okay,” he says, kissing her shoulder, gently biting her shoulder. “It’s okay.”

He knows his weight is on her, he knows she is feeling the pressure. Of course she could throw him off her without even having to move her limbs. That’s part of the deal. How much stronger she is. How sometimes she wants to forget this fact. Forget she is something dangerous, almost indestructible. Forget she is _something_. Coulson could never overpower her, that’s why she feels free to give up control.

Coulson can feel Daisy’s power echoing inside her body, like coils of energy barely under the skin. It’s impossible to explain how it feels, you have to be this close. At first Coulson thought this was what made sex with Daisy so different to anything he’d ever experienced, but then, after the novelty wore off (if one could ever apply that phrase to sex with Daisy), he decided it was just her, she was different, not her powers. He feels it every time, though, like a humming in his ears when they are together. Sometimes it’s louder than others. Tonight it’s loud, like something trapped trying to get out. _It was that bad, uh?_ he says to himself. He knows Daisy would never tell him how bad it really was.

His pace grows quicker, and more consistent, `pushing her further along the bed until she buries her hands under the pillows.

“Like this?” Coulson asks, mouth against her ear.

Daisy nods against his shoulder.

Eventually he feels another orgasm building in her.

He pulls her up, changing the angle and wrapping his hand around her, stroking her clit as he keeps moving inside her. 

He feels her let go a bit after she comes. That too is something he is used to. He knows her body, after all this time together. He can feel when her muscles untwist, when her soul tires of being alone. She reaches behind her and touches her fingertips to Coulson’s face, stroking his cheek as a signal. Coulson stops moving and pulls out so that Daisy can turn around. She lies on her back on the bed, looking up at Coulson like she hasn’t seen him in a long time, like she’s missed him. No one has ever looked at him that way. And something behind her eyes seems more settled now. Not haunted, like when she arrived. That makes Coulson feel such relief that he forgets what they were doing for a moment. Daisy reminds him, nodding with her head and then grabbing his hand and pulling him to her side.

“Come here,” she says, or he imagines it, from so many times he’s heard it when Daisy makes this exact same face. Relaxed, loving. 

Now she wants tender, soft, familiar.

Coulson falls into her arms, like coming home.

 

+

 

She redresses the bandage on his arm for him, some of the stitches opened during their vigorous lovemaking (and yes, he’s been waiting a lifetime to say that line) but he’s healed enough that he probably won’t need new ones anyway. Coulson loves the little wrinkles on her forehead when she concentrates on doing a good job. He knows them intimately, those wrinkles, and even though sometimes they don’t spell anything good, he couldn’t do without them. Daisy touches the new bandage and sighs, lying down by his side again.

“I’m so selfish,” she says, resting her head on his shoulder.

Coulson chuckles. Sometimes he can hardly believe her.

“Yes, that’s you, Daisy. Internationally known for your selfishness.”

She shrugs a bit.

“Well, I am selfish when I am with you.”

“That’s a good thing,” he tells her. He wishes she were ten times more selfish, but he’ll settle for lighting her load in any way he can. He knows it’s sappy, but at times he thinks that’s why he is here on earth, why he is alive, to make things a bit easier for Daisy. It’s sappy _and_ arrogant, but that’s how he feels. “I want you to be selfish when you’re with me.”

Daisy rolls her eyes at him, like he is such a fucking lost cause of a man. Well, he _is_ such a fucking lost cause of a man, but not in this.

She throws a glance at the door of the bedroom, wide open, you can see the living room and the kitchen from here.

“I’m sorry I missed our dinner date,” she says.

He runs one hand across her hair. He realizes she didn’t even shower after the mission, she came straight here - she came straight _to him_. She needs to wash her hair. Something to look forward to, Coulson thinks, if she lets him.

“It’s fine, I can warm it up,” he tells Daisy.

She smiles, excited by the idea. Coulson remembers Daisy is never one to let defeat linger or wallow in bad feelings. He’s never met anyone who gets back up as quickly as she does. Sometimes that troubles him - because part of that is that Daisy usually puts on a brave face even if she is not feeling it, she swallows the pain. But right now he can tell the smile is real.

They throw some clothes on and walk out of the bedroom.

Daisy sets the table while he takes care of the food, placing the candles on it again, like he had done. She retrieves the flowers from the sink. Coulson notices how she runs her fingertips over the wooden surface, distractedly. He remembers picking it up - the most expensive piece of furniture in the house. This place had become _home_ by accident; or as much of a home as they could have outside the base. The first few times they used it had been merely practical, and a change of clothes was enough. Then, as they kept needing time outside SHIELD to build their relationship, they brought in more stuff, not just clothes and the odd book. Kitchen tools was the next. The record player. New sets of bedsheets. They changed the bathroom tiles last summer. The table was Daisy’s idea, or rather it was Daisy’s idea that he should pick the table, “a Phil-thing” she said as she enquired where he used to go for his antiques and collectables. They found the perfect table at one of those trusted auction houses the old Coulson, the back-in-the-day Coulson, the before-Daisy Coulson, used to enjoy. He realized she had wanted to see that, and that the table was an excuse. She had called him a dork with the fondest tone of voice, while he was ogling antique pens in the shop.

Now it seems like Daisy loves the table even more than he does (she’d probably say she doesn’t, she’d say she loves it because he picked it, yeah, that’s the kind of thing she’d say, and somehow sappy things never sound sappy when she says them, just matter-of-factly, everyday statements).

“Is it ready?” she is now asking about the food, shaking Coulson out of his domestic daydreaming.

He nods, grabbing the plates.

He runs his left hand over Daisy’s back.

“Sit and eat,” he tells her. “Then tell me about what happened on the mission.”

She swallows a bit, sitting.

“Yeah,” she agrees.

He takes pity on her, for now.

“Do you want me to put on some music?” he asks.

She nods, her smile wide and grateful.

“This was the record I was playing all afternoon while I was cooking,” he tells her, as the soft 1970s jazzy tune fills the room, drowning out the annoying traffic, drowning out their fears too. He always loves talking to her about what he does when they are apart. It makes their moments apart more bearable, almost a privilege, because they end and at the end of those she’s always there. Maybe a couple of hours late, like tonight, maybe with a bruise or two. But she’s always there.

He opens the bottle of wine, finally opens the bottle of wine. He had picked it for her, who didn’t really care about the quality of wines, only that they were cheap and sweet. 

Daisy wraps her hand around his arm for a moment.

“Were you thinking about me while you were cooking?” she asks.

Coulson smirks.

“Of course.”


End file.
